2024.04.08: Introduction of Cerriphan, Marcus, Balcésar, Lizzy
A well-dressed gentleman wanders into the bar and orders two fingers of scotch, neat, before making his way to the empty piano and sitting down. He absent-mindedly works his hands up and down the keyboard, warming his fingers up before settling into a song "I do not recall hiring a new accompanist..." It had been several years, but the slightly sardonic alto was still familiar. "So, you got my note. Good. It has been a while...did Ms. Welch come with you or did she finally end up exasperated by your penchant for running into danger?" "I don't recall applying for a job." The familiar, teasing grin appears on his face as he looks up from the keys. "Sadly, Ms. Welch needed to stay behind in the City - take care of things in my absence. She did send her regards though." He pours a drink from an ice-cold flask near the piano into a coupe coupe glass. "Old fashioned?" "You remembered..." Honest, open delight. "Of course. Sorry about being incommunicado, this turned out to be more work than expected." "How could I forget?" He hands her the glass. "I won't hold that against you." He pauses, and grins. "This time." "The boss is demanding. I have a territory to run. There is so much technology to keep up with... I do have this lovely bar, though." She accepts the glass with a nod, then sips tentatively. An expression similar to that of a painted saint in beatific glory flickers across her features. The glass is half-drained. "I missed those..." She fidgets with the somewhat ostentations roses-and-vines pectoral necklace filling up the space between her collarbones and the depths of her neckline. "Well then, it's a good thing there's more where that came from." He sips his own cocktail and closes his eyes for a moment. "They've missed you too." A pause. "I've yet to meet the boss here - I wanted to see the bar first. It seems you need a pianist." His eyes are smiling, and his voice softens "It's good to see you again." "I need a lot of things. It's good to see you, too." More fidgeting with the necklace, as if the placement feels slightly...off. Or she is trying to allude to something. Possibly both? It is far showier than anything she had been caught wearing in the past. "You are not the only contacts I reached out to. We shall see who else is curious enough to come be a light in the darkness." "Well, some things, I can handle." His grin is in his voice as well. "I suppose we'll see who else answered your call." A pause "I couldn't not come." "There is always a choice." Another sip at the drink. "You know that. I spent all those nights trying to drill it into your thick skull, after all." "Then I wouldn't not come." He offers her glass a top-up. "Better." She accepts the refill. "So. What would you like to know?" "Everything, my dear. Everything." He's clearly joking "I suppose I need to meet the boss sooner or later and decide how to spend my nights. I can't spend all night behind your piano, after all." "And I suppose I'll need to find someplace interesting to call home as well." "Usually your lot hangs out in the Gordon Industries-controlled districts. Very shiny...very safe. Cameras everywhere. I could grant you safe haven in the Bon Vivant Studios district, but..." She shrugs eloquently. "Well, so long as you don't object to a some-time pianist wandering about the district, I may have to take you up on that." He's clearly teasing. "I should check in with mine as well, though I don't like cameras that someone else is looking through." A thoughtful sip of his drink. "You asked me to come - I'm sure not JUST for the pleasure of my company." "He is a nice boy. For a ruthless autocrat. Enlightened self-interest. Keep the bees safe and whatnot." "Sounds like someone I can work with. Competent?" "Would I have stayed and let him put me in yet another admittedly charming cage if he were not?" A lofted eyebrow and subtle smirk. A chuckle "No, no you wouldn't. Though the cage IS charming." "Only the best..." She sighs softly. "...I miss you. All of you." His reply is equally soft. "I've missed you too." A pause. "But that cannot be the only reason you've called for us." "Peace is fragile. I need people I can trust." She shrugs. "You do not think fairytale cities spring up in the middle of nowhere without running into -some- sort of trouble., do you?" "The last time I checked, fairy-tale cities springing up in the middle of nowhere are a sure sign of trouble. Besides, I get a distinctly Dark Tower-esque feel from this place." "Really?" She smirks. "Marcus Gordon is no Randall Flagg, I assure you." "Oh, certainly not." "I just work here, though." Another shrug. A warm smile "Just a girl who likes to sing?" "Just another Toreador....yeah." A sly wink. He raises one eyebrow in wry amusement, saying nothing. She rather primly sips at her drink, the picture of dilettante self-indulgence. Marcus deadens his face, stiffens his back, and extends his pinky as he lifts his whisky to his mouth. Doris stifles a snort of laughter. "It is good to have a familiar face around." His facade breaks, and his familiar laugh fills the room. "Well, I'd hate to think I came all this way just to play a piano." "I already have a competent bartender, so pianist is all I have left." He sips his drink a moment, and considers a moment before taking a seat again, and softly playing a few haunting chords before beginning the melody. Eventually, she begins humming, then singing along softly... As the neo-classical piece comes to an end, he leans into the keyboard, beginning the introduction slowly, and building speed as the first verse approaches to what you (might) recognize as Rush's "Limelight" Doris rolls her eyes and snorts into her glass, sitting this one out. Apparently someone has limits. Marcus finishes the song and grins "I guess you've found your pianist." "The poor mortal who has been dealing with me will be thrilled to have a night off." She grins. "I guess I could be convinced to put on a show once you're open." He grins back. "No Rush, though." "No. We have standards here. Admittedly, they are not exactly the highest, but hipsters have a truly disgusting amount of money. I had to argue for the demographic, though...but I wanted someone competent and local to repair my record player when it acted up." She shrugs eloquently. "The sound is better." "Don't get me started on hipsters." He smirks. "Then I suppose I'd best make that up to you, then." He turns again to the keys "My last song before I go and make the boss' acquaintance," and he begins a rendition of a song that Doris should remember from long ago. She laughs as the first notes float into the air, then proceeds to sing. The almost terrifyingly exquisite rendition goes unappreciated by the bottles and glasses and empty chairs, but that is beside the point. He flashes a grin at her from off his shoulder as he plays, glad to see that she's enjoying herself. He plays with relish, embellishing around the melody - and Doris' voice - before slowly softening the keyboard on the last verse, until all that's left is Doris singing the last line of the song. The last note fades. There is a soft pause. "...that was quite the evening." He pauses for a moment, savouring the memory. "Indeed. Indeed, it was. I never did buy that bar, you know." He looks up, smiling, "And now there may be more evenings." "There may indeed...between crises. There are always crises." The soft approach was only heralded by the pitter patter of bare feet, a low humming deep within the throat of the brown haired woman. Her stature was hardly much to speak of, and the slouch of her shoulders spoke of an uncertain restraint. But the eyes. Within deep amber there was a great distraction there, flickering all across the bar and watching every nook and cranny as the hums became little whispers, "Exquisite words in exchanging thoughts, how far has one come to finding one here? A showing and a telling and yet never quite encroaching the personal, just a touch enough to be close and never knowing." It wasn't even a greeting, and yet she swerved close by. "Welcome, friend...how can we help you?" The "we" was dreadfully formal. The auburn-haired woman was suddenly all business, her greeting almost a dismissal. A man was waiting patiently in the back, watching the oncoming Kindred with a quiet deference. The figure had what appeared to be a sort of Ceramic mask covering the crest of his left forehead down across his face, until just the tip of his chin. It was colored a soft white, with the eye-socket that covered it unpainted or elevated. His hair was slicked back, and the edges of burns under all sides of that mask betrayed its purpose. The rise and fall of his chest made it clear he was very much human. The black suit and blue tie, however, make it clear of his loyalties to the Prince. He would sit and watch, a dutiful security, unless compelled by whatever voice was in his earpiece. A man turns on the piano stool. Sitting down, his height is disguised, but he is well dressed in a tailored black suit, and a flash from his wrists. His smile is genuine, but he says nothing, waiting for the newcomer to speak. There's a faint tip of her head in the direction of the man at the piano, an appreciation there. "A rarely seen expertise of practiced hands, ah, yes, to be addressed and greeted and welcome; that is mine purpose. He-llo, friend of friends and the Queen herself, perhaps one may say." There's a sweeping motion, lifting the layers of skirt and adjusting the poofy turtle neck. A crinkle of her eyes into a smile. "A formality of an occasion to beginning friendships." "Doris Ashview, HR Director for Gordon Industries. My associate, Mister Marcus Antoninus. How do you wish to be called?" The human in the corner is left out of the introductions, but the other woman indicates the man at the piano belongs to the name Marcus Antonious. "How, how, how?" A repeating, already becoming obvious of where exactly her inclinations in blood lie, "A Cerriphan would be nice, though you would hardly singing it pretty as you once were, the soft and dulcet tones savored by the very same stranger man of Antoninus. A happy greeting." Her fingers would then begin to clasp together, nudging digits as if tapping. The human in the back would, if he were a lesser man, bemoan "Fuckin' Malks" but instead simply sat silently. Not his horse, not his races. Marcus rises from his seat, smiles and nods towards Doris, before stepping towards the diminutive Malkavian. He extends his hand in greeting. His voice is a deep baritone, with a hint of the American Southeast accent. "Marcus Antoninus. It's nice to meet you, Cerriphan." Doris is clearly doing her best to keep up with the rambling, circular and crabwise method of locution. "Serry-finh?" she inquires, checking her pronunciation. "Serry-fan!" There's a bright smile to her face, perking up little by little. As the man swept toward her there was another rustling of her skirts, hiking them up into a short curtsey before accepting the hand with a little squeeze. "Sweet smells and calloused hands, the crooner knowing his wily ways of wooing. A pleasure to greeting this one again, yes," a gaze cast back to Doris, "a good evening of music and love notes! A welcome gathering to stirring and falling into. This dear face of mine would then throw itself at your feet and ask of you inquiries." "I will be happy to answer your questions to the best of my ability, Cerriphen." The courtesy from the little Malkavian is met with an answering dip and nod. "A wishing to knowing, yes, if you are having seen a whisper of a few whom I am chasing," there was a small gesture there, indicating 'two' on her fingers, "A mother and child, though not quite childe, yes, a Kindred with her kith and kine, travelling. I am following them here." There was a bare pause, as if realizing how sparse the description was. "Mmmh, holding hands, with many belongings, nomads to saying the least; they are. Important, yes." Anyone with Auspex in the room activated likely hears the human muttering ever-so-softly, as if to a planted microphone in his throat. "Sir, Malkavian has arrived. Pendleton will want to be present for her presentation. She's a fishie." "I...remember them. You will not find them on this side of the veil, alas." Doris purses her lips, a wry twist of sadness. "I am sorry." For a brief moment, there is a stricken expression. Her brows contorted and her vacant smile became a hard frown. An understanding. And within it, a vague sort of horror. "... The whisper of what once was, having trapped mine eyes again. Ah, well. I suppose the wandering is all having been for naught. Alas." There is another sweeping curtsey there. "Then I must beg of you for a warm enough acceptance to stay within this city for the time until the Echoes are calling me away again. No purpose or drive, now, without the chase. The chase was intangible. A pity." "I cannot give you more than the hospitality of this bar...but Mister Gordon should be making an appearance eventually." She inclines her head, courtesy for courtesy. The expression shifted again, "The Queen acts herself the Prince, one is mistaken; I will happily await such a sighting of his face with eagerness. But kind, very kind. Thank you." Cerriphan was nothing if not able to bounce back quickly, smiling yet again. "Queen of this bar. Queen of the bees. Not queen of our people." The tiniest of smiles. The human gentleman's mutterings again were clear. "Send the Scourge, Mr. Gordon is cleared for entry." "Bees?" Her head turned around a little, blinking awkwardly, "I am not having seen any bees in here. At least, not since grass and tree and unkempt and unchanged lacking of concrete." "The two-legged sort. The bees that sustain us." A genuine look of understanding came to her face. "Oh, yes, I get it. How interesting to calling it that!" It was probably the most coherent thing she'd said so far. "I read it in a book once... Humans as bees." The door flung open. A woman stepped in, head held high. Her eyes were a burning yellow, and any pretext of normalcy from her is abandoned. She was pale, and a mix of elegant cheekbones and fair skin were betrayed by the utter ferocity in her orbits. He took a few steps forward and nodded curtly to Doris. "New Bloods?" she asked, voice at a near growl. She was wearing a suit of Kevlar that could best be described as someone's attempt to put elegant armor on an actively rabid wolverine. Rivets of steel plating interspersed with curves to match her flesh. A most striking feature, however, was the symbol of G.I. on her lapel. Gordon's figurative and literal lapdog. "Kenna Baird. Scourge of New Albion. I do all screening for newcomers." The grooves on Cerriphan's face crinkled for a moment, then brightened again as she swept back up to a taller position from her typical slouch, the curtsey deepening as any sort of greeting became a low thrumming deep in her throat. The skirt was adjusted thereafter, and a proper sort of grin graced her lips as she looked over the Scourge curiously. "A test of tastes for new found faces, frankly, understandable." "Ms. Baird..." A note of warning in the Toreador's voice. The merely five-foot-two woman in her evening gown seemed magnificently unafraid of the rabid wolverine. "Remember where you are. They are with me." The Scourge smiled. Her fangs were out. In fact, her teeth had more in common with a wolf's canines than a Kindred. "Oh, are we doing that right now?" She stops, droops herself down in a deep bow, and comes back up. "Mr. Gordon humbly requests the honor of ensuring that the licks who wander into his-" she stops, a shortness of breath suddenly taking her as a quiet pain rushes to her eyes. She takes a deep breath and stops. "... Name and genealogy, New Bloods." she mutters, all feral rising from her muted and subdued. The mistress of the bar folds her arms and waits. The overwrought necklace no longer seems out of place. There's a little snort and a rubbing of her nose as she looked over the expression of The Scourge. "Remembering and tensing and keeling, cooling, careful glances and looking over. You know, you know. I am Cerriphan! Serry-fans! Cerriphan d'Galdis, yes. Malkavian. Wait! You were probably already knowing that. I am sorry." The gentleman at the piano stands and recites. His tone is formal, and deliberately courteous. "I am Marcus Antoninus, childe of lineage, Childe of Ventrue. Though you appear to have me at a disadvantage. How can I help you?” The Scourge simply smelled the air in response to Antoninus' question. She quietly sized the two of up. "I represent the interests of the Prince of New Albion." Her eyes dart between the two unknown entities. "He will be arriving shortly." "We are breathless with anticipation, Ms. Baird." The chill in Doris' voice frosted the air. "Oh, wonderful, I can requesting mine desire to straying directly to him. And conveying mine deepest thoughts, no doubt." Cerriphan was already vaguely ambling closer to the piano to peer at it while they would 'await.' Marcus Antoninus takes a sip from his whisky, pauses for a moment, "I look forward to meeting him," he says dryly. The door opens again. This time it's an athletic gentleman with loose and dark hair, dusky olive skin, and unkempt cheeks; he hasn't shaved for a few days, at least, so we're using the term "gentleman" here loosely. He's wearing a pale dress shirt several buttons undone, with a dark sports jacket tossed over his shoulder. At least his slacks match, and he's bothered to polish his shoes (though that was probably coerced). He's only missing the fedora, but he's enough sense to know that'd be a bit on the nose. His eyes are a pale green, contrasting with his other dark features, and they cast back and forth apprehensively with an accompanying rise of a single, dubious brow. "Maybe I'll just come back later," he says, with a hint of Spanish lilt. "You may as well stay. Drink?" There was apparently nothing that could come through the door of the piano bar that would faze the owner. Not two-legged rabid weasels with thumbs, not Serry-fans, not old friends, and not disheveled, vaguely handsome men who looked like they had just come from someone else's bed. Exhaling slowly, Balcésar studies everyone for a brief moment. It presents as a tepid glance, but he seems to know what he's looking for, whatever that might be. "Alright," he says, allowing the door to close almost soundlessly behind him. No need to be rude. "Bourbon. Neat." He finds a seat near the bar, settling upon it and resting his jacket in his lap. "Nice place," he adds, peering around. "Thank you." Doris moves to take over bartending duties. She pauses after setting out the glass on a rather high-quality paper cocktail napkin. "How neat do you require it?" The dusky man smiles a bit inquisitively at the question. "How good are you at reading your customers?" He taps the bar once, pressing one elbow thereon and leaning forward an inch. "Read me." "Only two sorts here before we open...and I have not hired you. So. Answer the question because I am not having good bourbon sicked up all over my expensive flooring and bar." The retort is flat, a cool rebuff. Now is not the time for games. "Una chica picante," says the man, fluidly. He chuckles twice. "Good sell. Consider me sold on the challenge. I'll take your good stuff. Or the best of the two, at least." With two fingers, he taps his nose. "I solemnly swear to not soil your fixtures." With an elaborate, exasperated sigh, she turns to find the appropriate bourbon...but not -that- bourbon, but she is going to need -that- bourbon shortly anyway, so best have it and a glass out... Speaking of pre-opening arrivals, Lizzy pops into the bar from the back entrance, wearing a form-fitting cocktail dress and a set of heels lower than one might expect for said dress. Her hair is up out of the way and her makeup is on point, if light and somewhat hastily done. Dim lights in the bar cover a multitude of sins, right? She's also carrying a crate of bottles that the barback would normally handle. She doesn't look terribly happy about it but manages to keep the grunt she makes while setting the crate down a quiet one. Kenna seemed rather annoyed at the incoming visitors. Before should could voice her displeasure, however. spins on heel and opens the door. The Prince of New Albion enters. Kenna, for her bravado, wilts and fades in the distant shadow of a burning blue flame. No... No, not a flame. His eyes. His eyes. His… Eyes. The Ventrue Prince cast a gaze over the bar. He looked, first and always, to Doris. A gentle smile drifted across this hard English face. He stood at six feet, just barely above the now silent form of Baird. His suit was the finest silk. A sleek black that was accented with the smallest hints of Ventrue Sapphire. A keen eye would note the slight rise tucked underneath the small of his left shoulder. “Ms. Ashview… A pleasure, as always.” he offers a tip of his head with warm smile. “I heard we have a few new visitors to our fair city, and I am always happy to meet with them.” His vision turned to the faces he didn’t recognize. “I am Marcus Gordon. Welcome to my city.” He radiates with each word a borderline ethereal authority. Every syllable etched with Ventrue Awe. The bourbon orders are reorganized. The newcomer gets his poured second but pushed to him first. The Prince has his hand-delivered. "Mister Buchanan is as efficient as always, yes. May I present Ms. Cerriphan d'Galdis of the House of Cracked Mirrors, Mister Marcus Antoninus of your own people, and... I had not yet gotten the third gentleman's name quite yet. He dresses like a Toreador, though." "Gordon, Prince of Eternally Burning Flames. A liking to meeting you, a crooning askance to requesting a place of visitation and staying within the city before the Echoes are calling me away again." Cerriphan is a little more eloquent in tone this time, gathering her skirts for another friendly curtsey. Lizzy had been putting away the bottles she had brought in when he walked in. The minute she notices Marcus Gordon himself is in the establishment, Lizzy stares, a little starstruck. It's totally not the Awe. Nope. There's even a little catch of her breath. She takes a deep breath to calm herself down... yes, she's breathing... and continues her work with the studious effort of minding her own business. Still, her eyes wander to Ol' Blue Eyes. She can't help it. The man at the bar isn't rude, exactly, but he isn't falling over himself to make any kind of introduction, nor does he turn to look... at anyone for that matter. He does offer something of a sideways nod that affirms Doris' suspicions, and also lifts his glass, once it reaches him, in honor of the Prince's arrival. It's a simple gesture of respect, and maybe he's just a simple man, but he does seem to have a fair grasp of the who's-who. "Balcésar," he says. Marcus extends his hand to the Prince. He looks him dead in the eye as he introduces himself formally. "I am Marcus Antoninus, Childe of lineage, Childe of Ventrue. It's good to meet you." He extends his hand to shake. The Prince stared at Cerriphan, for a moment. "... Ah, a sister of Malkav. Of course. You are welcome to pass by. If you intend to stay for the foreseeable future, do stop by the Pendleton estate. The good doctor could be of use." he smiles warmly, before his head turns to Antoninus. "Ah, welcome to New Albion. I'm certain we will have work for you for as long as you are present." he shakes the hand. Kenna shows a quiet deference, bowing her head to the new Ventrue. Finally, Gordon looks to Balcesar. "Welcome." if he seemed bothered by their lack of ceremony, it didn't show in the gleaming blue orbits. Almost as an afterthought, his vision glances past the Kine entrapped in his gaze, and for a fraction of a second, Lizzy's whole world was beautiful, and nothing hurt. Though the moment faded and the light returned to a distant shore. He nodded to his attack dog, who raised her head, exposing her neck in a sign of feral affection. He idly walks back to her. "For the time you are in my city, consider you my guests." During that blissful moment, Lizzy attempts to continue what she's doing... but her hand completely misses the bottle she was grabbing for, instead reaching for empty air. When the moment passes, she shakes her head again to clear it, muttering some curse words to herself as she got back to work. Some of them were aimed at herself, others aimed at the barback who should have been doing this, but was nowhere to be found. "...keeper of hounds..." is muttered after him. "Baron of Glasgow. Soverign Authority of New Albion and arrogant Pict for who this bar is named." There is...affection? amusement? ... in her voice, along with the sort of ritualized intonation that accompanies a recitation of titles. "Happy to being the guest of the Eternal Flame. Fluttering among many, here, the Queen is purring and bowing to the Prince, of course-- ah, the good doctor? Another face to greeting soon, happily." Cerriphan was beginning to shuffle back and away, more curtseys to following. "I would not wishing to delaying these tense and turbid discussions further, of course, I should departing soon." "Prince Gordon, thank you for your Hospitality. I'm sure I would be happy to provide what assistance I can." Balcésar doesn't seem a man prone to ceremony and makes no apology for it. That said, he does say, clearly, "Gracias, and appreciated," with a genuine tone of solemn enough gratitude indicative of political competency. He's quite aware of his place. He finally brings that bourbon to his lips for a sip, taking a long time to taste it before setting the glass back down. The expression he levels at Doris could possibly be described as impish, and follows a very, very brief smirk. Spicy, indeed. Gordon nods to the Ventrue. "We'll be in touch." he assures him. He quite confidently murmurs to the ear of his attack dog. She nods sharply, and lays a business card on the barcounter, gesturing towards Antoninus. Her card. A contact for him. He swiftly moves to the exit. "I have other stops to make tonight." he pauses, and glances to Doris. "Put the bottle dropped on my tab." he gestures to the air. "And get these people to work. Our city will not falter. Not for one night." Marcus picks up the card and produces one in return. It is plain and white, the design unchanged. It reads "Executive Outcomes - with a number on it." "Yes, yes...of course. I shall manage your resources as always while you attempt to charm those resistant to my wiles." There is a gentle dismissiveness in Doris’ tone, the air of a work spouse who is only pretending to be exasperated. "When are you going to -pay- your tab, anyway?" He was halfway out the door, when she questioned paying his tab. He stopped, turned around, and opened his jacket. He looked up to her. "How much do I owe you?" he asks, a checkbook in his hand. Lizzy stops what she's doing, without prompting, and moves to the register to pull up the info on Marcus Gordon's tab. She has the good grace to not appear shocked; instead, she prints it out and sets it on the bar, letting him and Doris fight over who gets to look at it first. "Get on with you..." A comical, almost I-Love-Lucy eyeroll and a grin. The Ohio non-accent accent softens and broadens into a country Irish lilt. "Shoo. I like having you indebted to me." The tab is whisked up and vanishes somewhere about her person. Gordon’s eyes set upon the mortal bartender. He squints for a moment and writes a check. "With a Twenty percent gratuity." he mutters to himself, sliding a check across the table. 15,000 dollars. "If you'd like to not cash it, my dear Ashview, you're free to leave this young one out quite the windfall." he rises up and smiles warmly at Doris. "Do as you'd like." he spun around and left. Kenna gave a near comical shit eating grin. She winked at the Toreador and slipped out after him. A dog chasing her master. Lizzy looks like a ghost just flirted right through her, but she clears her throat and drops her gaze. "Longest arms I have ever seen on a Scotsman." Still the brogue. "They reach all the way to his pockets." The man at the bar casually eyes the check, taking a sort of slow, unobtrusive observation of the exchange. Balcésar then wordlessly slides his bourbon towards Lizzy, only adding after her shock has died down a mite, "I think you need this more." Lizzy looks down at the bourbon and the check. The latter goes into the till, as it's the safest place for it even if it isn't cashed, and holds her hand up to quietly refuse the bourbon. "Thank you, sir, but I don't drink on the clock." That accent is full Texas, born and bred. "Suit yourself," says the man, simply, and without any obvious judgment. He wraps a few fingers around the glass and pulls it back with easy dexterity. His next sip drains much more liquid than the last, and he takes a deep breath after. Perhaps meeting the Prince hadn't quite made it to his calendar today. Surprise! "And I work for him on purpose..." There is elaborate, vaguely affectionate exasperation in Doris’ tone. "Sounds terrible," says Balcésar, dryly. He finishes his booze with a final tossback, and then begins to pull himself up. Fishing his wallet from a back pocket, "How much I owe you?" "After having to deal with that bitch? On the house." The woman's disapproval of Kenna Baird is a masterclass in resting bitch face mechanics. The man nods his appreciation and replaces his wallet with a few short movements. "I know a guard dog when I see one," he says, his voice even-toned. "And I intend on seeing as little of her as possible," he adds, beginning to slide his arms into his jacket, as well as smoothing out a few wrinkles. It's something a of a futile gesture, which he seems to realize after a few attempts, giving up with a shrug. "I take it he's the man everyone works for." "In the end, yes." Balcésar thumbs his nose thoughtfully and nods. "I've seen worse despots." While it's quiet, Lizzy scoots out from behind the bar to clean up any glasses left behind. She's a few inches taller than her boss, which is now more obvious since she is out on the floor. Turning to watch Lizzy go about her chores for a moment or two, he eventually looks back at Doris and slides his hands into his pockets. "Guess I'll be seeing you." He heads to the door. "Y'all come back now, y'hear?" Lizzy sounds far too chipper when she says it. "Soonest best, Mister Cruz." The crispness was softened slightly by the ghost of a smile. "We have entirely too much to do and not nearly enough time." "Good to meet you, Mr. Cruz. Perhaps next time, we should bring a chew-toy for the Prince's pet? It might put her in a better mood." His comment is delivered dead-pan, but his eyes twinkle with humor. He turns to Doris "And what needs doing? You called us here for a reason." "I called -you- here. Mister Cruz and Ms. d'Galdis are here on their own." He grins "Well then, I guess I'm flattered." Lizzy quietly smirks watching her boss order all these menfolk around. She brings the dead soldiers, most of them still bleeding because vampires are perpetual fake-sippers, back behind the bar, and with a quick wipe with a clean cloth, it's almost as if there were never any pre-opening guests. Of course, all the guests get that sweet, damn-near-sincere customer service smile. "Mister Gordon wants a lot of things. Some of them are in your wheelhouse, Marcus. When I meet with the other City Council members, I will learn how the rest of you integrate into the plan. Mister Cruz, we shall have to talk about how you want to gild the lily of the arts district." She nods at the efficient human, flashing a brief smile. Doris seems to have a similar aura about her as the glad-handing charmer who just left, but quieter. More organic. He was on his way out, really, but just as Balcésar had opened the door and was about to step through it, his movement is suddenly arrested. He gently presses the door closed, so as not to be chatterboxing with the very public, and then levels his green gaze on the proprietress. "That'll be a short talk," he says, frankly, clearly implying he doesn't do much with gilding. "You want me to find something or someone though, we can chat." In a smooth motion, he retrieves his wallet again and produces a business card which he, Gambit-like, flicks with practice onto the bar. It slides a foot or two before coming to rest within reading distance. Balcésar Cruz, Private Investigator. "We may just that..." A slow, not entirely pleasant smile curls the corner of her mouth. Lizzy perks up a bit at that, but she doesn't say anything. She does look at the card, though, scanning it visually to remember the number before Doris picks it up. Marcus scans the card quickly, glances towards Doris before speaking up. "Mr. Cruz, before you leave..." and as he turns, Marcus reaches into his jacket, and with a flick of his own wrist, a plain, white card, with black writing. "Executive Outcomes. Security Services." And a phone number. "We may find ourselves with business in common, Mr. Cruz." The card vanishes into the same indeterminate space as the tab. It's probably becoming clear that the "I could use a cigarette" look is standard Balcésar, but he's not so foolish as to deny sympathetic opportunity, and so steps away from the door. "My calendar's always clear for the cause," he says with a particular brand of dryness as he walks by the bar. It could be sarcastic, it could be serious. Maybe the ambiguity is the point. Then nearing Marcus, he accepts the card and glances thereto. "More guard dogs?" His eyes flick up to the man. It's not a judgmental question. Marcus smiles serenely, seeming to ignore the question as he pulls his cellphone from his pocket and taps a few commands onto the screen. "Not as such, no." He passes his phone to Mr. Cruz, revealing the contact logs from Cruz' own phone. "I find a simple demonstration of my skills easier than boasting, Mr. Cruz. Don't worry, your information isn't being saved." Balcésar accepts the phone with a cool sort of curiosity, an expression which alters quickly with the lift of a brow and a sudden, if more casual interest. "Rude," he says, spinning the phone in his hand, and then offering it back. Somehow, it presents more as compliment than insult. Naturally, he then plucks out his own phone and checks it with a surprising lack of apprehension (or he's just very good at hiding it). "Fancy trick." He's impressed. He also stows his phone once he's satisfied nothing's been seriously compromised. "Might as well add your info while you're in there." The laugh is genuine. "I suppose I might as well." Marcus Antoninus punches a few more keys, updating Cruz's phone with his own contact information, before turning the screen back to Cruz, so he can watch as the connection to his phone is broken. He raises his near-empty glass and raises it to Balcesar before taking another sip. "Good to meet you, Mr. Cruz. Do let me know if you require my services." "Yeah," says Balcésar, who manages to sound noncommital despite having already telegraphed his interest. Keeping up appearances. He nods his acknowledgement as well, and then turns to step back towards the door provided no one else calls him out by name at the very last minute (Doris). Doris allows the other Toreador to slink away without any further harassment. Category:Logs